


till august when the clouds roll in

by Verit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verit/pseuds/Verit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One would think Sherlock'd shut up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	till august when the clouds roll in

**Author's Note:**

> This is an odd text, because most of it exists just in my head. These words are just... a skeleton. But I see a lot in them, I did put a lot in them; maybe someone'll see something here. I sincerely do hope so. First written just to let my ~feelings out in a text form, even though I resisted the urge to write post-Reichenbach fic for an hour (wow, dear, how awesome of you). My thanks, as always, go to J.
> 
> John's POV. Quote from _This Weather_ by Patrick Wolf.

Heart and head pounding in unison, no matter how much he'd like them to stop.

Especially at night, especially at dawn.

He decides on the tea, sips it slowly, staring out of the window at the grey houses with the grey sun's light thrust unkindly on them.

"Dull," comments Sherlock.

One would think he'd shut up.

*

He saw a silhouette or two, outlines against London sky, so sharp and piercing, of course he did, was never so naive to believe he wouldn't. Half-reflections in cab windows. Shadows in the corners. He will see more before the summer ends.

*

"You're not grieving properly," said gently. The sun is getting inappropriately bright, he needs to ask Ella about the curtains. Well, the lack of them.

"You could say that."

"No, John. You know the five stages of grief? You went through them, like everyone else. But then you went through them again. And again."

Okay.

"If it's your way of making my death stand apart from all the others, it's really an idiotic gesture."

An endless cycle.

Well. It's not like it hurts anyone, right?

*

"You could get used to taking your coffee with sugar."

"It's not like it matters."

"Another way of paying final respects to me, no?"

"I'm not doing that."

 _Suit yourself_ , he would say. Except he wouldn't. _John_ said things like "Suit yourself".

*

"Time to change the blog design, do you think?"

"You don't have a say in this."

*

John is watching people in the underground and on the streets, he is staring intently, trying to deduce, guess, if only a little.

It's pointless, he can't even check if he's right and he's not confident enough not to check.

Sherlock is laughing.

*

"If you just ignore my lab equipment--"

"No, I'll get to it. I'll get to it."

What does he care? Does anyone even care? Mrs. Hudson hasn't said anything.

He'll get to it. Maybe.

*

"You're not about to send yourself a text from my phone? That would be--"

"Shut up. I wouldn't, and anyway, you threw yours on the roof. It's not your phone, it's mine. A new one."

 _Oh_ , he would say. Knowingly.

That's the one thing John hates about now, having the last word. Before he would be... well, that would be something else.

That's one thing.

*

"What would you do?"

"I don't know."

*

He crumbles once against the stairs, weakening hands clenching, spares no thought for the grocery bag. Betrayed by his own body.

Maybe twice. And some other times. It's not like anybody is watching him. Mrs. Hudson can't do it all the time.

And he sees Sherlock standing against that wall, his otherworldly smile, sees him clearer than ever, clearer than those times against the London sky, in the cabs or in the dark street corners. That's when it hits him, makes him really understand that... that. Well.

That's... one time.

*

He still goes in cycles, though.

He won't stop moving, _Sherlock wouldn't like that_ , they don't need to say that again, he knows.

Sherlock doesn't have to _like_ the direction, though. Nobody ever asks about that.

*

_What would you do._

He doesn't… it's too much, this is where he draws the line, how-- even Sherlock would understand.

How could he ever think about that.

*

He doesn't know. So he doesn't react, his head and his heart the only things that betray him. Still pounding.

Sherlock is betrayed by his eyes.


End file.
